


like an arrow through my heart

by CkyKing



Series: be gay, do (war) crimes [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: (for good reasons but still), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, M/M, Spoilers, because dia is ready to bite off any crest-bearer’s head in a few miles radius, because having a goddess inside of you has consequences, byleth behaves like a forest spirit when he is not busy scaring everyone off, nader is reluctantly charmed, overprotectiveness thy name is jeralt, the one where they head to almyra
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:48:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22805803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CkyKing/pseuds/CkyKing
Summary: “After all, white wyverns herald great leaders and great terrors alike,” he finishes in the sudden silence that falls on them, hanging in the air like the slightest of funeral veils, “and I’m wondering which one you’ll turn out to be, Ashen Demon.”[or: almyra seems like a good place for dia to finish growing, especially when she seems so keen on taking on the entire world. hopefully they won’t come to regret it...right?]
Relationships: Jeralt Reus Eisner & My Unit | Byleth, My Unit | Byleth & Dia (Wyvern), Nader/My Unit | Byleth
Series: be gay, do (war) crimes [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1615672
Comments: 3
Kudos: 47





	1. nock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welp, here i am, back on my bullshit again. once a rarepair writer, always a rarepair writer i guess lmao. time to build my ship and sail it too!

They head for Almyra as soon as Dia’s wingspan reaches the appropriate size for her to earn her title of  _ death on wings  _ as Jeralt so aptly put it.

Not that she wasn’t a terror already, far from it in fact. Stealing food from the company’s reserves, spooking horses and mercenaries alike by popping out of saddle bags and sacks like a demented jack-in-a-box and, worst of all, keeping Byleth all to herself, to his father’s disgruntlement and general moodiness.

But that’s nothing compared to how she gets when Byleth gets out of her sight while away from his immediate circle: his father and their ragtag group of mercenaries.

Men or women, young or old, it doesn’t matter to her because they only register as  _ enemies _ to her senses, and her rage is as great and terrible as her master’s. No matter that she is still a child, she would turn them all to ashes if they ever dared threaten Byleth or the people she sees as  _ his _ .

Fódlan’s taint flows through the blood of her inhabitants, the sins of their forefathers passed forever down in an interrupted chain of betrayal, a brand they carry proudly in the shape of the lives they so casually snuffed out and rever like it does not run red with the blood they spilled. 

They may not remember, but Dia and her brethren cannot and  _ will not _ forget.

And they will not forgive.

***

Here’s a secret the Church will never figure out as long as Jeralt still draws breath: he and his son never stayed long enough in Fódlan for anyone to catch their trail and follow it back to its source.

Oh, of course they take jobs here and there, moving from Kingdom to Alliance to the Empire, but just as often as they roam the countryside and avoid major cities where they’re more likely to be recognized, they cross over to the surrounding countries Fódlan seems so intent on disregarding: the wastelands of Sreng, the marvel of magical innovation that is Morfis, and even the frozen wonderland of Albinea, untouched by man and left to the wilds.

Even then, it’s only Jeralt and Byleth, their company keeping up the pretense of their presence by doing jobs in their steads, drawing attention so they can slip away unbothered and unnoticed.

After all, the title of “Blade Breaker” opens many doors, and the ressources and secrets he amassed over the years can unlock many more besides, as can his contacts spread all over the world.

That is to say that Byleth’s ignorance about the dealings of the Church of Seiros is partly feigned (because A) he isn’t stupid thank-you-very-much and B) you can’t take one step with tripping on someone praying to the Goddess and praising the church or, alternatively, castigating it and wanting it gone) and the rest is taken care of by his  _ aggressive disinterest  _ that he learned from the best. 

While he may not look like it, his father can hold grudges like nobody’s business and in his case, being quiet about it doesn’t make him any less vicious.

(Honestly, where do you think Byleth got his temper from?)

So, Almyra it is, where getting and, most important of all,  _ keeping  _ a wyvern’s loyalty is not as far-fetched a tale as it would be in Fódlan where only the descendants of Saint Cichol’s mount deign to follow orders. Even then, it is only bought, for loyalty owed to one is not owed to all, and every wyvern rider in the Church’s service know it is only the memory of a Saint’s deeds that keep their blood still flowing within their veins.

Hopefully this should keep Dia from bringing Ailell down on anyone who even dare look at his son the wrong way, at least until she grows enough that Byleth can temper her instinctive reactions to the point they can both take to the battlefield.

As apprehensive as the father in him is, the mercenary can’t deny the excitement that sparks down his spine when he watches them play together, curious and eager Dia to patient and indulgent Byleth.

What potential they have, how bright they’ll shine.

He can’t wait to see it.

***

Their arrival in Almyra is...less than auspicious.

Originally, they were to supposed to head for Fódlan’s Throat and  _ only then _ use one of the numerous skirmishes Almyra subjects the eastern border to as a distraction in order to cross over and hopefully lose themselves in the wilderness before the Almyrans took exception to their presence.

That was the plan, at least.

Instead, they  _ somehow _ end up fighting off soldiers side by side with said-invaders, the Almyrans completely ignoring them in favor of the more tempting targets sporting the colors of House Goneril, Lord Holst at their helm.

(Dia’s fury as she attempts to lunge at the Goneril heir is a war drum at the back of Byleth’s mind, her concern bright and her fear  _ cutting _ . 

_ Is this how it feels, to have a heart?  _ he thinks as his father bodily drags him backward, his bulk a shelter from the alarmed cries that ring out as Daemon rears up in preparation for battle.

For the first time in his life, he feels regret at being unable to ever experience it for himself)

Byleth, astride Daemon, steadies himself with a hand on his father’s shoulder as they ride forward, Jeralt’s spear temporarily turned into a blunt instrument that he wields with extreme prejudice to clear them a path forward, his great swings a scythe to their enemies’ wheat; keeping them distracted from the working of magic gathering at his back in the form of a growing chant that undercuts the noises of battle like the press of a giant’s hand forcing their heads down. Plucking light from the air as casually as one would pick a fruit from a tree, the Ashen Demon cracks the world open and lets its yolk run out, hissing and spitting and  _ molten _ , onto their opponents, robbing their eyes of light and their limbs of fight, Dia’s screeches echoing out in defiance from her place at his back, her wings a glowing cape refracting the light of belief in a thousand shades as she clings to the one she is sworn to protect.

As much as nobles like to romanticize battle, to hang it – cut and dry and utterly  _ lifeless _ – in their studies like the paintings of their many ancestors staring down their noses at any who dare look upon them, any fighter worth their salt can tell you what a worthless  _ lie _ it is.

Real battle is messy, and hard and thrilling and thousand other adjectives that’ll fail to ever capture more than a glimpse of what it is. 

You act, and react, and pray to whatever being you worship that you’ll do it faster than whoever you’re sticking the pointy end of your weapon into. If all else fails, fists and kicks may break your bones but hey, you should see the other guy.

And if you’re a mage, hug your incantations close and your calculations closer and spit them both out until your clever tongue fails. When you’re done choking on your own blood, red is as good as any chalk and the world is your oyster and you the knife to break it open.

So you see, battles aren’t usually conductive to dialogue, trying to kill the others faster than they can do you in will usually do that to you.

And when the Ashen Demon and the Blade Breaker are involved? 

Well, better cross your heart and hope to not fucking die.

In the end, everyone involved, from dutiful soldiers to resentful invaders, will only remember snapshots of this skirmish, blurry watercolors of stilled life with the tang of lightning in their mouth and iron heavy in the air, a knife poised to slit their throat from ear to ear so they finally have something to laugh about:

The light and the blood and the merciless sun. 

Jeralt and Daemon a chimera of crushing force and sharper edges.

Dia in hues of red and white and gold, fury her shield and her sword.

Byleth as deep and unknowable as the sea and just as merciless.

And what happens next?

Well, what do you think happens?

People die, others live and they all move on.

Exit stage-left, lower the curtains, blow out the lights.

  
  


***

They leave behind shell-shocked soldiers and a – barely, but still – breathing Holst who, when he wakes up, will think twice about engaging hooded strangers with sword arms like a ram and spellwork like a fucking cataclysm.

(And let’s not forget the white wyvern who nearly _ took his arm off _ —which Hilda will never let him hear the end of, he’s sure)

Of course, they do not go alone and are, to his father’s exasperation and Byleth’s embarrassment on both his and Dia’s behalf, accompanied by a detachment of wary Almyran warriors (not a Death March, thank the Goddess; that would have been too messy by half even for Jeralt). They don’t seem to know what to make of them, suspicion warring with interest and consideration as they glance first between Jeralt and his giant war horse and then Byleth and the deceptively placid white wyvern still draped across his shoulders like a war banner.

They had unveiled their faces as soon as they were far enough from the border to no longer be recognized which, Byleth thinks as he looks at the eased tension that still coils at their shoulders, was a good call. Almyra’s hatred of deceit is as well known as Morfis’ magic or the natural wonders of Albinea after all, and it wouldn’t do to make them ever warier than what their earlier display had already accomplished.

Thinking back, Byleth doesn’t feel guilty per se, because mercenary work does not exactly foster respect for nobles when you’re the one hired to deal with their dirty work, but he does feel a little bad for the Goneril Heir.

He is self-cognizant enough to not wish himself on anyone if they didn’t warrant it and  _ both _ him and his dad is a bit much to deal with, especially out of nowhere and in the middle of an invasion.

Oh well, at least now he’ll know to keep Dia away from Crests at all cost, because what other reasons would there be when she has so far only emulated their aggressive disinterest when presented with the other nobles they’ve worked since she joined their (highly trained and armed to the teeth) little band of misfits.

But first—

Jeralt, already following along his train of thoughts without being prompted, only shakes his head and gives in without a fight because the one thing worse than an angry Byleth is a concerned Byleth.

So he only sighs a little when his son reaches up with careful hands to tilt his head to the side, gamely ignoring the suddenly alarmed look of their...hosts, as the same hellish glow they’d seen drain people of their life lights up his son’s hands once again.

With the careful pass of a finger, the burn already shining red and slick on Jeralt’s cheekbone recedes like the tide, blooming in reverse under the heat of Byleth’s healing. A little painful perhaps, like standing too close to a fire, but cleansing nonetheless; radiant, so unlike the cool and calming balm that he had long ago come to associate with faith magic.

When the Almyrans start looking like they’re going to object, Byleth only turns his head a fraction, just enough for them to get a glimpse of his eyes and the deceptively relaxed set of his mouth; warning signs all but spelling out the unholy cross between _ i fucking dare you  _ and  _ I am a healer  _ **_but_ ** that he’s perfected over time dealing with recalcitrant mercenaries.

They, very sensibly in his opinion, stand back down after one glimpse of it with commendable aplomb. 

This might (or might not, who knows) also have to do with the sudden menacing cant of Dia’s wings as she shifts to stare them down with predator stillness or the look in Daemon’s fiery eyes as he stamps the ground once, twice before shaking himself off and settling back down.

Well, looks like they’re off to a great start.

***

Their destination is apparently a camp and they are – as much as he can tell from the very armed, very ready welcoming committee – expected.

Honestly though, Byleth’s not even worried. At this point, his temper is slowly starting down the slippery slope from annoyed to  _ i still have blood in my hair and i am fucking done _ levels of mind-numbing  _ fury _ .

See, since the first time his dad wrapped his child-hands around the grip of a knife and showed him the location of the femoral artery, he hasn’t considered him anywhere near helpless. Still doesn’t to this day, what with the hand-to-hand and the magic and now with the addition of an overprotective juvenile wyvern to the mix.

Which should tell you everything you need to know about how he deal with threats and outside restrictions.

That’s right:  _ he doesn’t. _

He played nice – if you can call leaving them half-dead and regretting all of their life choices that, and he  _ does _ – with the Goneril soldiers because that was his and Dia’s fault and he isn’t going to punish them over reacting to their lord/employer/commander nearly losing an arm to an angry wyvern.

But he can and  _ will  _ hold a grudge over being walked at spear point through the Almyran wilderness only to end up penned in a camp with an  _ even heavier _ surveillance team waiting for them.

They even made sure not to harm any of them during their flight and that’s how they get thanked? Honestly, they should have just acted like the mercenaries they are and put everyone in the ground, damn the consequences.

The “fancy tactician” part of him, always detached and always watching, points out that  _ they _ were the invaders in this case. He shoves it off the cliff of his temper because Almyra technically doesn’t have any laws prohibiting travel across their border and being a mercenary is all about finding the thin line between law and crime and tap-dancing all over it.

Only the soft press of Jeralt’s hand at the small of his back and Dia rearing up like she’s about to spit venom at anyone within sight keeps him from spiralling down to the place where everything becomes  _ static _ and calmly unlatching the reinforced box his temper’s kept in.

The closer they get, the blanker Byleth becomes; all little signs of life draining out of him like blood out of a wound until he is left looking like a specter: too pale and too still with fever-bright eyes and a snarl tucked at the corners of his lips.

Knowingly or not, Dia echoes it back, her anger subsumed into something cold, something dead like the not-heart in her master’s chest. She ignores the many wyverns that surround the camp, big and small, bonded and not, and presses her snout to the side of his face, scales warm and dry against the dampness of blood and exertion still stubbornly clinging to his skin.

He doesn’t soften, not exactly, but flickers of life come back to his countenance; stars showing up one by one in the darkness of space, scattered and small but alight nonetheless. 

Smoothing a hand down her spine in thanks, Byleth looks back toward their destination and sees one man stepping forward to greet them, the giant wyvern at his side hissing in agitation as soon as it lays eyes on Dia and him.

Part of him should be offended; or flattered, or anything really, but he only feels  _ cold _ . Cold, and dead, and focused, ready and willing to burn the world down—and with the means to do it at his fingertips.

The sudden clench of Jeralt’s hand at his back as the man draws near sparks and snares his attention, the only sign of it the slight movement of his eyes from his father and back to the Almyran – general, or commander, he is not sure – heading straight for them, head held high and a smile on his lips.

It is certainly a striking smile, Byleth thinks faintly, distantly, but his eyes—they are as cold as his own.

At his side, Jeralt undergoes his own transformation. From one moment to the next, his stride changes; movements turning as smooth and languid as the drinks he likes to indulge in; his disinterest brandished like a shield and a sword, made the more cutting by how alive he suddenly becomes.

Summer to Byleth’s winter, the flame of humanity at which he warms himself when everything inside of him succumbs to the hoarfrost of his rage.

They really do make a good team, don’t they?

Guess they’ll just have to demonstrate it once more.

And finally, the three of them meet in the middle, ignoring the audience that surrounds them in a loose circle of beasts and men alike like they do not matter in the grand scheme of things. They don’t, not really; not on this battlefield where giants clash and either break or forge themselves anew.

Byleth should look small, compared to the two of them. Lithe and willowy, barely reaching his father’s chest; he is dwarfed by the newcomer who stands even taller than his already towering father and seemingly twice as wide across the shoulders. But  _ should _ is not  _ would _ , and he looks perfectly at home there, on equal footing with two legends in their own right.

(That should tell you something, shouldn't it?)

Tilting his head back with deliberate slowness, not because he  _ has _ to but because he  _ wants _ to, he meets peculiar chartreuse (what, being a mercenary does not make him _ uncultured _ ) eyes with his own and glimpses a flash of approval, there and gone like a light extinguished, before howling winds cover it once again.

Their staredown is broken by Jeralt, who steps in front of his son decisively, not hiding him from sight but making damn sure that his meaning wouldn’t be lost in translation.

“The Undefeated, didn’t think I’d see you here,”

“I should be asking you that, Blade Breaker,” the man answers easily, no recrimination in his voice even as a clamor sparks and spreads like wildfire across the ranks, “If I had known you were coming, we would have sent a welcoming party!”

The newly identified Nader then turns toward Byleth, who stares stoically back, still as a snake and just as ready to strike; mimicking, consciously or not, the wyvern draped across his back.

“And that would be your child, I take it,” He continues, pausing for a second to incline his head respectfully if not differentially at Dia, who only coils closer to Byleth with a suspicious glare.

“What of it.” Jeralt bits out in answer, not a question but a demand, hackles rising at the possible threat to his flesh and blood.

Seeing this, Nader raises his arms and laughs, a great booming thing that would have brought a smile to Byleth’s face in other circumstances, dispelling the tension like mist disappears under the midday sun.

“No, no, nothing of the sort, Blade Breaker!” he says, still chuckling, eyes lightening for a blink-and-miss-it moment before settling back to steely rather than arctic.

With a strange little smile, half-knowing and half-wistful, he looks first to Dia and then back to Byleth before meeting calculating brown once again:

“It’s just—you wouldn’t know it, even as widely travelled as you are, but your child’s partner holds a special meaning here in Almyra. Which is lucky for both of us, because I don’t fancy rubbing salt in this wound,” he continues, gesturing at the scar nearly bissecting his face with an easy smile and easier grace, “just like you wouldn’t want us to get serious, I’m sure.”

“After all, white wyverns herald great leaders and great terrors alike,” he finishes in the sudden silence that falls on them, hanging in the air like the slightest of funeral veils, “and I’m wondering which one you’ll turn out to be, Ashen Demon.”

From anyone else, Byleth would have taken this as an insult, a dare, as a gauntlet thrown down for him to prove his worth. But from the man who’s earned for himself the title of “Undefeated”, he sees it for what it is: an acknowledgement, a title seen and used in the way all things earned must: frankly, brutally and without mercy.

And with this, his rage finally abates and he can once again look at the world in shades of grey instead of the red that coursed through his veins and stained everything that it touched.

“Welcome, to Almyra,”


	2. aim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Byleth will not know it for a very long time but in that moment, smiling up at the happily flying Dia, dappled light shining through the foliage highlighting his hair and eyes in shades of green and gold, he looks otherwordly—like something born to trees and earth, stepping out of its den for the first time to inquire after the humans nearby, so close and yet so far.
> 
> Nader, unbeknownst to himself, is more right than he thinks.
> 
> That, too, he will only realize later.
> 
> Such understandings rarely come before they are needed, after all.
> 
> They never do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and another chapter, because i have literally no self-control lmao

Jeralt settles in Almyra with the easy grace of someone who has travelled all over the world and does not care where the journey takes him as long as it involves food, drinks and a place to rest.

Byleth—Byleth has never settled for easy in his entire life, wouldn’t even know where to begin, really. He’s always been too sharp, too much: godstruck and moon-touched; lightning shaped like a boy with an ocean heart, mirror-still until the riptide drags you down into its depths.

It is a blessing that Dia takes more after his father than him, the only signs of his influence her mindless rage when danger befalls those she calls hers and the utter disdain she subjects everyone else to. 

Though, looking at her play-fighting with the other wyverns and staring inquisitely at the Almyrans passing them by, quiet and awed, he thinks that maybe it is just Fódlan that she hates; and he honestly cannot fault her for it.

For all that he was apparently born there, Byleth has never felt any particular loyalty to this country built on the back of children whose paths are traced the moment they come into the world, a sin passed down from one generation to the next in the form of a sigil still barely understood to this day.

(He very carefully does not think of the lines that etch themselves darker and deeper each time magic flood his veins and burst out into the world, shining and perfect, or the bottomless grief that fills his father’s eyes when he lays eyes on them)

All of this to say that Byleth is as Byleth does and takes his stay like he does his coffee in the morning: black, no sugar and as _far away from people as possible._

He can only thank the gods that they stay out of sight and out of mind of the general Almyran population, their welcome only extending so far as the nearby village he’d been too angry to take notice of before and in a straight line back toward the border and out of their hair.

Say what you want about them, but they know the value of information for all that they favor honest combat over subterfuge and, white wyvern or not, they are not gifting the Pack any more ammunition than they need to.

_Pack_ , Byleth rolls the word in his mouth, sampling it like he had when Nader first jokingly referred to them as such. 

If it had been anyone else, he’d have thought he was losing his edge. 

(The last time someone not part of the company had tried, it had ended up with him crushing a sword like cheap paper – it _was_ a cheap sword under all the gold and adornments anyway and he is not sorry – maintaining eye-contact all the while.

No one ever said Byleth was a saint – and wow, that’s an understatement if anything – and judiciously applied _schadenfreude_ is the spice that keeps mercenary work from turning stale. There is only so much navel-gazing and sheer _dumbassery_ you can take before snapping after all, and no one wants to see Byleth snap. _Ever_. He’d be offended if the self-satisfaction didn’t already blot out everything else.)

But remembering his father’s bracing hands at his back, the warm approval that shone through his eyes and lifted the corners of his lips in a rare smile, the snarls that carved his face and deepened his scars when someone had tried to take Byleth from him when he was still a defenceless child, he decides that Pack is fitting. 

The glint of weapons a flash of bared teeth, melting in the night like they were born for it, battlecries their howls under the moon so they may always find each other.

Yes, it is a very good description indeed.

Not that Byleth would ever tell him that. The man was already infuriatingly persistent enough without adding fuel to the fire, and a pyromaniac he is not, even if he knows several people who would swear to the contrary.

And he has to admit that it’s...nice, if a little bit awkward, to be talking with someone new as an equal instead of being looked down upon as “too young” or “too frail-looking”.

(It wasn’t his fault he inherited his mother’s build, dammit!)

So, defying all expectation, he accepts the daily visits with the sort of indulgence that rarely sees the light of day except when his father, and now Dia, are involved. Jeralt’s stoic fretting and Dia’s possessiveness are par for the course of the Pack’s daily happenings, the second one a great deal more overt than the first one of course.

Even to himself, he cannot quite figure out why he allows it but sitting on the edge of the encampment, back to the buildings and tents that dot the landscape in a myriad of colors, looking out to the abundant nature that surround them, it’s easy to let the man’s words wash over him.

Still, a small, ever-alert part of him, is aware of the distance between them and keeps at the ready, idly tugging at the threads of his power like running a piano scale in preparation of a fight that will hopefully never come. 

(All the better to string you up with, my child.)

Dia, for her part, takes to Nader and his wyvern partner, Roc, like a fish to water: clambering all over the much, _much_ bigger wyvern and play-biting him like a crow harassing an eagle; using Nader’s shoulder as a stepping board to practice flying and even going so far as to _acknowledge_ his general existence while doing so.

Suffice to say, there is no objection on _her_ part about Nader and their continued acquaintance. And of course, because Dia was actually the reason behind their conditional welcome in Almyra – something very few people in Fodlan can claim to this day – they are quite obviously smitten with her and take her antics with indulgence on Roc’s part and boisterous laughter on Nader’s

To be honest, Byleth gets the appeal. Almyrans are certainly...rougher, for a lack of a better descriptor, than your typical Fódlanite but much more genuine in both their likes and, more importantly, _dis_ likes. With his very approximate understanding of the expression of human feelings, he can’t help but see it as the boon it is because while he may be observant, it doesn’t really help when he has _no idea what exactly he is looking at_.

Another side-effect of growing up with mercenaries: you don’t get a lot of experience with _healthy_ coping mechanisms. Which—makes sense in hindsight. The decision to run away from everything you’ve ever known and start killing people for money doesn’t usually come from a place of deep self-understanding but what does he know?

Oh well, another thing to keep working on at least. 

That, and trying to limit his father’s alcohol intake. Turns out Almyran liquors are just like like Almyrans themselves: tall, dark and with a kick to knock your teeth out if you’re feeling brave enough to try them.

What a surprise.

***

Nader’s visits usually follow the same vein and Byleth, as loath as he is to admit it, actually enjoys the chase as much as the actual time spent with the general.

Indeed, as soon as he is done with his morning ablutions, he gathers Dia in his arms even if she is nearly past the point of being able to fit against him and disappears into the nearby forest with a press of cool lips to his father’s temple and nary a whisper.

Under the foliage, Byleth and Dia lose themselves, both predators in their own right out on a stroll, on cat’s paws and snake-swift. Together, they explore, unearthing places that have not been touched by human hands in what they seems like years: a calm watering hole filled with water lilies that glow a brilliant blue, ruins of some manner of outpost covered in moss and reclaimed by both nature and animals, delicate buds of fey’s tears tucked in the roots of massive trees and waiting only for the full moon to unfurl.

Those discoveries they keep to themselves, and they withdraw leaving them nearly untouched once they’ve had their fills, racing off to more travelled paths once Dia picks up the faint but fairly distinct tread of Nader’s boots as he sets out to find them.

The first time, it was a surprise; the second, suspicions started to form and on the third, it turns into a game of cat and mouse; or rather cat and cat.

Byleth on one side and Dia on the other, they disappear into the speckled darkness cast by the foliage and wait for Nader to track them down unfailingly before searching for another cover. Rinse and repeat until either they are caught red-handed or Byleth gets close enough to steal something from the man; generally a weapon but more often than not, it ends up being a treat for Dia or, strangely enough, for him.

Before he can ask however, Nader always distracts him with a teasing remark or a tantalizing piece of information about Almyra or wyverns in general and leads them back to the encampment, chatting all the while and keeping a respectable distance between.

_Choosing your battles_ , Byleth thinks faintly, impressed in spite of himself with the seemingly casual misdirection while knowing it is anything but, _seems like a good skill to develop_.

No wonder he earned himself the moniker of “Undefeated”.

Too bad Byleth wouldn’t know the meaning of giving up if it knelt in front of him and begged him to stop instigating fights while appearing unconcerned, _for the love of all that is holy._

Oh, wait, that was Jeralt—nevermind.

“But you don’t even believe in the Goddess, Dad,” was Byleth’s answer—wide-eyed and soft-spoken and completely serious as only a child can.

To this day, he hasn’t seen someone’s will-to-live leave in quite as spectacular a fashion and the sigh that escaped him then could have put a storm to shame.

Just thinking about is enough to bring a smile to Byleth’s face, and Dia, sensing his mood, calls out to him in the peculiar thrill-shriek of adolescent wyverns, swooping down to playfully tug at one of his sleeves before circling back up, exhultant over her newly developed flight prowess.

He doesn’t notice how Nader’s usual chatter trails off into fascinated silence or how those strange eyes of his that take in so much but reveal so little focus on him, intent.

Byleth will not know it for a very long time but in that moment, smiling up at the happily flying Dia, dappled light shining through the foliage highlighting his hair and eyes in shades of green and gold, he looks otherwordly—like something born to trees and earth, stepping out of its den for the first time to inquire after the humans nearby, so close and yet so far.

Nader, unbeknownst to himself, is more right than he thinks.

That, too, he will only realize later.

Such understandings rarely come before they are needed, after all.

They never do.

***

“Would you like to spar?”

The Almyran general grows still as a barely familiar voice echoes from the roof of his temporary abode, soft with disuse but lilting and smooth otherwise; a strange mix of accents that leaves him wondering _where_ exactly this boy they called the Ashen Demon grew up.

Lifting his head to look at its source, it is with a mix of amusement and exasperation that’s becoming worryingly familiar that he sees Byleth looking back at him from his seat on the roof, countenance not betraying any of his thoughts except for the knife he flips through deceptively elegant fingers. A knife that grows more familiar by the second the more he looks at it.

A lightning-quick smirk, there and gone in an instant, curls the corner of the boy’s mouth when he sees the recognition that flashes through him no matter how much he tries to hide it before throwing it at him, telegraphing the move all the while. 

Catching it is but the work of an instant, as is tucking it back into its hidden sheath under his sleeve, an unimpressed and vaguely reproachful stare directed at his thief all the while; a stare which is met only by wide-eyed innocence with no signs of remorse whatsoever. He lets it go with a sigh because trying to get Byleth to do anything, he had come to learn quickly, was a task better left to masochists and idiots and Nader was a lot of things, but neither of those even came close.

As for the pickpocketing itself, he would feel more insulted about it if he hadn’t seen firsthand how quick the mercenary ould be if he put his mind to it. 

There was a _reason_ for why he was the one sought once news of a white wyvern crossing over from _Fódlan_ of all places after all had started spreading like wildfire, bringing with it the tales of her human who moved like the wind and hit like a tempest and the mysterious rider who carved them a path across the battlefield as easily as one would catch rain in the palm of their hand.

The scar across his nose flares up in remembrance of the spear that had nearly taken his head off decades ago when he had still been _green enough to stay on the damn tree_ but it is with a smile that he acquiesces to the rather unexpected request:

“Gotta be honest, I almost didn’t recognize you without the dark and silent thing you’ve got going for you,” he continues, unable to stop himself from teasing the normally unflappable mercenary, “Taking too many lessons from your old man, I’m telling you.”

It’s only because he’s looking closely that he notices the faint crinkles at the corner of Byleth’s eyes and the exasperation that follows it, an eye-roll not seen but telegraphed so strongly he’d have to be blind to miss it.

“Huh, maybe I was wrong about the silent part. I don’t think I’ve felt this judged since I was a wee lad and nearly got myself eaten,”

The faint disbelief that touches his expression is expected and he basks in it, because catching people unaware will never stop being entertaining no matter his age. Unfortunately for him, Byleth is far too used to such things and simply ignores it, robbing Nader of the opportunity to launch into the retelling of a story he’s pretty sure half of Almyra knows by now. Still, it never gets old, and being underestimated is never a bad thing after all.

“Awwww, you’re breaking this old man’s heart! Not even a little bit curious?”

“Not one bit,” he replies cooly, unmoved by the general’s pretend pleading before turning his gaze to the sky, one hand coming up to shade his eyes as he seemingly hunts down for—is that Dia?

Even to his enhanced sight, she is barely more than a dot flying in ever tightening circles, centered around, he realizes belatedly, the youth currently sitting on his roof. Whenever did she manage to start flying this high, however, is the true question to ask.

_Sneaky_ , he can’t help but assess, not that he has any doubts after spending nearly a moon now tracking him every morning and trying – and failing – to stop every one of his weapons from being pilfered and left in conspicuous places.

Spirits help them all if Claude ever lays eyes on Byleth.

The boy-king is already slippery enough on his own without the incentive, and that’s discounting his fascination with puzzles, which, if he is honest with himself, the mercenary is the biggest example of he has ever encountered.

A piercing whistle breaks him out of his thoughts and, with a start, he realizes that Byleth is now much closer to him than before, standing next to him instead of sitting—fingers hovering over his mouth for one more second before he lowers them, waiting patiently for Dia to descend.

(Sneaky indeed.)

Then, with an expecting look, he turns back to Nader, waiting for—oh, yeah, he did mention a spar didn’t he?

Ah, well, wouldn’t want their famed hospitality to be tarnished, right?

With a nod and a smile, partly feigned but more genuine than what he’d expected from a threat assessment mission, he gestures for him and the newly arrived Dia, much bigger now than when they’d first set foot in Almyra, to follow him.

Only the steady beat of her wings answer him, Byleth’s steps as silent as ever, the sole hint of his presence the prickling at the base of Nader’s spine, the awareness of _threat threat threat_ developed over years fighting for his life on and off the battlefield.

Quick, quiet and with an imprinted wyvern at his side: a deadly combination if he has ever heard one.

And yet, he can’t stop the smile spreading itself across his face, eager and impatient.

A masochist or an idiot he may not be, but a fool—that’s another story entirely.

He might be careful in picking his battles, but that’s experience speaking, not temperament. After all, Nader’s always had an interesting relationship with danger; namely, the more there is, the happier he gets.

The years have mellowed him out somewhat, and he isn’t as eager to throw himself and the men under his command into it as he was before, but by himself? Well, that’s another thing entirely.

(How do you think he met Roc in the first place?)

And this boy, hero or tyrant or both no matter that he does not know it yet, exudes danger with every breath he takes, the complete opposite of the Blade Breaker who only comes alive in the middle of a fight.

He should probably be more cautious, experience tells him.

But, well, it can’t really be a threat assessment if he does not face it at least once, right?

(At least, that’s what he’ll be telling the King and Claude when they invariably ask once the two mercenaries he’s keeping an eye on finally leave their territory.)

He can’t _wait_.

***

The spars become another daily occurrence for them, especially after Dia’s meteoric growth becomes an hindrance rather than an help in allowing her to traverse the undergrowth as fast as Byleth does.

Instead, their daily exploration usually devolves into a game of tag, or aerial maneuvers, or even getting her accustomed to carrying Byleth on her back. For all that she does not even come close to her future adult size yet, he is slight enough that she can carry his weight without any problem.

Flying, weaving, repositioning; they try everything together, all in the name of figuring out their partnership and the tactics that most fit them. 

Jeralt, of course, frets in that stoic manner of his once out of the sight of the Almyrans that still stare at them warily, if not as distrustfully as before. From then on, he makes sure to check on them every morning before going fishing like he has done daily since they arrived. There was no need for it before when Byleth lost himself in the forest, because he is at home there in a way Jeralt had only seen ever seen in his wife, and there was no need for his protectiveness as long as the trees cast their shadows over his son’s form.

But now, exposed as they are, still figuring themselves out in the vastness of the unforgiving sky; his hackles are raised too much to even think about leaving them to their own devices.

And so, he and Daemon stand guard, still as gargoyles and just as threatening, wolves looking on as their cubs grow teeth and claws and learn to wield them both.

Of course, that is not to say that Byleth and Dia are alone in their training. Roc and Nader are usually right up there with them, teaching both of them by example how a proper bonded pair ought to fight—nothing like the mockery the Church’s riders make of it.

“Broken before they even spread their wings,” Nader had spat out, looking angry and terrible and _Undefeated_ for the first time since the beginning of the acquaintance; the first and only time Byleth had broached the subject. Dia’s mournful thrill at the mention of those lost brethrens of hers had made sure of it.

From then on, the sight of two wyverns chasing each other – one as pale and graceful as the other is dark and imposing – as their riders clash and separate becomes the norm rather than the exception to the stationed warriors.

It is only occasionally broken by the boisterous laugh of their general, swallowed by the howling winds and brought to earth; or flashes of holy light—and one exceptional time by twin screams when the pale rider apparently _jumped from his mount to the other’s in middair_.

Their assignment is certainly looking more interesting by the second, that’s for sure.

***

By now used to Almyra if not truly familiar with it, it is easy for Byleth to lose himself in the flow, training and playing and very occasionally teasing, the worn and comfortable routine of making yourself at home wherever you go that becomes an intrinsic part of your life when you grow up as part of a nomadic group.

Nader, as dangerous and imposing and _cunning_ as he had appeared during their first meeting is the largest reason why, at least in Byleth’s case. He can admit it, at least to himself and Dia, that he actually _likes_ the other man, rough and genuine for all that they both know he is there to keep them away from anything the King of Almyra wishes to keep secret.

Dia’s obvious fondness for him is also a point in his favor, because while she may hate Fodlanites, she has never steered him wrong when it comes to an individual’s character and it is...reassuring to have that security net when human mannerisms that should come as easy as breathing still elude and confuse him.

Three moons ago when they had first left for the Throat, he would never have imagined any of this, but he can’t help being glad to be proven wrong, for once.

Even the tension that had drawn his father’s shoulders taunt since Dia had joined their merry band of misfits eases as she is taught and nudged this way or that by more experienced wyverns. As she learns to exist around other people without feeling the need to break them for looking at what is hers.

( _She is_ , Jeralt will think with mingled fondness and regret, watching her eagerly bump into Byleth’s chest, _very much like this wild child of mine_ )

But of course, just as their guard starts to drop, everything shatters—as such things tend to do when the end appears within sight.

***

_oh, sweet childe, nothing gold can stay_

_summer to autumn, autumn to winter_

_the wheel of time forever turns, and its flow will tear everything asunder_

_learn this, and learn this well_

_you are from the earth and to the earth you shall return_

_***_

_you have tarried here too long and you must now make haste_

_please, byleth, for both of our sakes…_

**_hurry._ **


	3. release

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first sign of something gone wrong is the absolute silence that falls on the encampment, an artificial calm that pinches and pulls at nerves both human and animal. The eye of the storm, like watching the sky light up and waiting with baited breaths, counting down silently until the world rumbles like it’s going to shake itself apart.
> 
> [or: when it rains, it pours]

The first sign of something gone wrong is the absolute silence that falls on the encampment, an artificial calm that pinches and pulls at nerves both human and animal. The eye of the storm, like watching the sky light up and waiting with baited breaths, counting down silently until the world rumbles like it’s going to shake itself apart.

The second is the hair-raising _howl_ of a wyvern about to spiral headfirst into blood-madness, the kind of noise that hooks under your skin and _pulls_ with the sickening wrench of your guts unspooling out and onto the ground, gleaming and wet. Magic and fury mixing together into something heady, something dangerous...and utterly merciless.

The third, and most concerning of all, is the still figure lying on the ground, limbs splayed out like a discarded doll’s; nerveless, unresponsive. Pale and washed out by the light of dawn’s first rays, it takes everyone – all the warriors who had rushed out of their temporary lodgings at the first sign of trouble – longer than usual to recognize it.

And when they do, two more cries add themselves to the blood-mad wyvern circling down to their position, rushing forward out of the sudden crowd that had gathered themselves unconsciously in a loose circle, mirror-image to the last time their ordinary lives were intruded upon—the same actors but a different script, the world entertaining itself as any must.

Because the still figure is Byleth, skin as pale as Dia’s scales – Dia, the blood-mad wyvern is _Dia_ – and his eyes rimmed red with exhaustion, veins stark-blue against the thin skin of his eye-lids, twitching as if caught in the midst of a nightmare.

But his hair—it is as white as snow, nothing like the rich teal everyone had grown used to seeing around their camp, intrigued by the strange color not normally seen in Almyra.

Jeralt takes all of this in as he runs forward, heedless of danger, and it is only Nader pulling him _back_ at the last second that stops him from being crushed when Dia lands over his son’s still form, all fury and none of her usual grace as she shelters him under the bulk of her body, wings raised and tail lashing like a caged predator.

He is starting to feel this way himself, because it’s his _son_ lying on the ground and looking so much like he often did as as a child, sickly and pale and barely breathing.

In a moment of startling insight, he is reminded of his dear Sitri on her bad days, when she could do nothing but curl on herself and breathe through the pain as he looked on helplessly.

(In, out. In, out.

_It’s only pain_ , she used to tell herself, _it’s only meat and bones and nothing more._

Gods, he misses her _so much_ )

With a sharp movement, he wrenches himself out of Nader’s grip and barely stops himself from snarling when the Almyran does not let him go, a deceptively fast hand reaching out to snare him around the arm once again.

The general’s eyes, when he meets them, ready and willing to go through anyone, are worried but sharp, uncompromising. It is only the memory of the many mornings spent watching him spar with his son that stops him from gutting the Undefeated right here and there; and even then, only barely.

“She’s in a blood rage, if you go to her right now, she’ll tear us all apart trying to keep Byleth safe,” he states, voice rumbling in what would have an intimidating manner if Jeralt wasn’t himself and hadn’t nearly taken his head off when the Almyran was still green around the edges.

“I don’t care,” Jeralt over-enunciates, rage licking at his self-control like flames ready to devour everything in its path, “Because so do I.”

With that, he breaks Nader’s grip with a contemptuous twist of his arm and head straight for Dia. He ignores the way she goes tense and focused as he gets closer as well as the harsh whispers telling to _come back_ that echo fruitlessly behind him.

Because she is going to let him check on his son, and she is going to get out of his way or she _is_ going to die.

It is as simple as that, because he wills it so, and because he won’t accept anything else.

Predator to predator, they stare each other down as Jeralt draws closer until slowly, reluctantly, she moves to the side, exposing her precious burden. Still, she stays curved around him—like gravity, like he is the moon and she is the tide, the swell of her wings and the arch of her neck protective, watchful.

(He understands her, is the thing. If Byleth was ever taken from him, he thinks he’d go crazy, would drown himself in blood to etch the curve of his smile in the marrow of his bones, the cadence of his laugh in the space between his vertebrae.

Moon-struck, tide-lost.

Blood-mad)

Slowly and with infinite tenderness, Jeralt kneels next to his son’s still body and reaches out, one hand sinking into snowy tresses and the other wrapping around his waist; bracing, possessive.

In his father’s arms, Byleth is not just cold—no, he is _freezing_. The simplest of touches is enough for Jeralt to feel it spreading to him, a physical ache that seeps through the slivers of flesh left uncovered by his clothes and digs its claws into him, hungry and desperate.

But for what?

As if it had been but waiting for him to voice the thought, his heart speeds up, core temperature rising in answer to the drop in his son’s, against his will but not at all unwelcome. He can only hug Byleth closer as his blood does what his mind is unable to, following grooves in the fabric of the world worn by a love brighter than the sun and as terrible as the flames of war.

Flashes of memories well up inside of him as heat gather at his hands in a diffuse glow before running down his nerves and into the icy skin under his bare fingers, the fire of healing taking flight on immaculate wings:

Byleth as a toddler, child-limbs soft with puppy fat and unbearably fragile in his clumsy embrace.

As a teenager with a hand of the taffrail of a ship headed for Dagda and the other wrapped around Jeralt’s forearm; an anchor, a support.

Of laying a guiding hand at the small of his back in the city-state of Morfis, a changeling lost in the scent of spices and the cobweb-softness of billowing silk, magic heavy on his tongue and sparking at his fingertips.

Those same fingers on the shining scales of a drakeling Dia, each ridge like a rosary under his trailing nails; of the quieting drag of a warm hand down her back; of the both of them flying like they were born for it, graceful and lean and hungry for the sky.

And finally, with the feather-light touch of a hand trailing across his cheek before vanishing back into the ether, the bend of her spine around his too-still body, present but not-quite-touching; of the deliberate space between her furnace-hot belly and his freezing skin.

With an internal _snap_ that drives the final nail through his heart, the mismatched pieces slot themselves together. And oh, how blind he was, how thoughtless!

In his arms, Byleth’s eyes flutter open, the influx of power enough to keep his blood flowing for a little while longer.

Seeing this, Jeralt draws him even closer, regret lodged in his throat, and guides his head until it rests at the crook of his neck, heavy and boneless but for the steady rhythm of his breaths puffing against his skin, the only sign that he yet lives.

The careful steps that stop at his back, the swell of mutterings around them, Dia standing guard beside him; he ignores them all and focuses only on the slight body in his arms, clinging to life even as he is hastened toward death. The sting of tears rises, foreign and forgotten, and only the weak tug of shaking hands around his shoulders grants him the strength to push it down one more time.

His beloved son, strong in all the ways that should matter and yet so very weak in many others.

A great tree with the most delicate of roots. 

A blue-sea-heart and a waning soul.

He would kill this whole goddess-forsaken world for him if it came to it.

And yet…

Resolve strengthening, Jeralt raises a claiming hand to the back of Byleth’s neck, fingers tangling in the soft hairs that curl against his nape as he brings all of those feelings to bear and pushes them through the autonomous machinery of his soul.

_No magical aptitude whatsoever_ , Rhea had once told him after fruitless hours spent trying to teach him how to mend the simplest of wounds before laughing at the mulish cast of his mouth. 

He was always made to kill, is the thing. As harsh and untameable as the mountains he hailed from, so long ago. Only Sitri – and at times Rhea – could ever draw out the gentleness that slumbered in the bare bones of his being, unseen; a tiny sprout waiting for spring.

(And it did come, it _did_ —and there is not a day that passes by when he is not thankful for it, for that seedling that one day came to nurture and be nurtured by the miracle he calls his son.)

But it doesn’t matter, because he won’t allow it to.

_Meat and bones and nothing more_ , he mouths against Byleth’s temple, a mantra, a prayer to a goddess he hasn’t believed in since she took his wife from him and from the son she never had the chance to meet.

_Ô Sitri, please, don’t let our son die. Not here—not like this!_

His faith a spark and his blood the wick.

The Crest of Seiros ignites.

Miles away, Fódlan _burns_.

***

Byleth has never looked smaller than he does now, tucked securely against Nader’s chest as Roc’s wings slice through the air on either sides of them, swift as an arrow in flight and just as sure.

Without the weight of his personality, the potential for violence tucked neatly behind smiling lips like the most venomous of fangs, he looks...peaceful, almost harmless, really—the antithesis of the guarded youth Nader had come to know during their days spent together.

This illusion is easily bypassed by a closer inspection however, the minute shivers that wrack his frame like the deadliest of chills and the unhealthy pallor of his skin putting such frivolous thoughts to rest. It is only highlighted by the immaculate white of his hair; no mix of silvers and greys to be seen anywhere on him, the very absence of such natural signs of aging marking the color as alien, inhuman even.

No, if Nader had not known him before this sudden bout of illness, he would never have recognized Byleth.

Stark white and pale blue, the delicate lattice of his veins on display under the translucence of his skin, he looks nothing more than a ghost, an apparition. A spirit of wind and ice born amidst a spray of snowflakes and waiting only for the first rays of dawn to melt away, carried away by the breeze like the remnants of a forgotten dream.

Though, he thinks distantly, securing the cloak a little tighter around his charge’s neck, illness is perhaps too light a term to describe the abrupt change that took place before his eyes. 

Still, he is an Almyran through and through and has no place in his life for the magic Fodlan wields so casually in their quest for dominion. And so an illness it will be, no matter the exhausted lean of Dia’s great head as she ruffled her human’s hair with the most gentle of touches or the grief-stricken expression on the Blade Breaker as he tasked one of Almyra’s deadliest weapons with the safety of his son.

“Fly fast and fly true, Undefeated,” he had said, handing over his son with the expression of a man being torn in two before leaning down to press his forehead against Byleth’s one last time, a whispered prayer hanging like a lone firefly between the two of them for an instant, sole remnant of the light Jeralt had called into being in defense of his flesh and blood.

Any signs of gentleness disappeared when he straightened however, and the look he fixed upon Nader had made him wish for a weapon, and still does even now that its fierceness is confined to a mere memory.

“Bring him back to Fodlan safe and sound if there’s any honor left in you, Undefeated.” A part of him had wanted to bristle at the slight but it was kept in check by the look on the mercenary’s face, cutting through the pain and the exhaustion that were apparent to all but a minute before: deep and dark and incandescently _furious_. The Great Wolf about to swallow the world for the sin of threatening all that he loves:

“I spared you once, when you were but a child in a soldier’s clothes,” he continued, intractable, immovable, deaf to hopes and prayers alike, “But if you harm a _single_ hair on my child’s head, I will make you wish I had killed you back then instead.”

And he had turned away, stopping only to call Dia and Daemon back to him as he went to pack for their return, certain that Byleth would be kept safe, and that the land would run red if anything was to happen.

Even without the Blade Breaker’s demand, he would have helped Byleth, is the thing.

He doesn’t know when it happened, can’t even begin to guess if it was from their playful chases or the spars or the flights, but at some point, the younger mercenary had slipped from _Ashen Demon_ to _Byleth_ in his mind. 

How had Nader missed this? 

Missed when he went from always keeping Byleth out of his blind spot to laughing fondly when one of his daggers went missing and the culprit in question trailed a hand across his back before fading back into the foliage?

Missed when Roc started laying his head in the youth’s lap, comfortable in his presence like he only is in Nader’s and is just now beginning to with Claude even after years of acquaintance?

Missed when each meeting started feeling more indulgence than mission, a spot of uncomplicated fun with someone who saw _him_ , not as Nader the Undefeated but rather Nader, the man?

When a cool hand slips under the edge of his sash and stays there, fingers relaxed and half-curled against the fabric of his tunic and the faint roughness of the scar tissue underneath; an unconscious gesture, a bid for reassurance, he knows he is done for.

Even half-insensate, languishing for a warmth nothing but Fodlan could provide, Byleth stays aware enough of his surroundings to react to them, startling moonsilver eyes blinking open every now and then before sinking back down into an exhausted torpor.

It is only now that they are already flying toward the Throat that he realizes he was able to take him without struggle was because he _allowed_ it, a degree of trust that he has seen extended only to his father so far as humans are concerned. After all, he doesn’t doubt for a second that Byleth could have made anyone who attempted to carry him off without his say-so regret it bitterly—even as weak as he feels, curled against Nader’s chest like a kitten searching for warmth.

_How strange_ , he muses as he urges Roc higher, the cold wind whipping around them nothing but a suggestion to him, _that gaining the trust of one boy would feel as momentous as being accepted by Roc, all those decades ago._

Though, if he is to be honest with himself, boy is a bit of a misnomer, implying a lack of experience both on and off the battlefield as well as a naiveté that is all but absent in Byleth except for the rare times where the minutiae of human interaction escape him. A candidness that he wished all Fodlanites shared, honestly.

As for his age...it remains as much a mystery as the Blade Breaker’s, a trait that the former knight seems intent on turning into a family inheritance. And nothing in either of their behavior betrays them, both of them navigating the world like they own it, trusting themselves to pull through with the kind of confidence the Almyran would have envied in the years before he truly grew into himself.

Still…

Nader releases those thoughts with a sigh that’s immediately torn away by the howling winds and focuses on the smooth bunch of Roc’s muscles under him, the smell of impending rain that gathers on his tongue and the spreading ache of his old wounds.

Those will be for later.

Now, there is only him, his precious cargo, and his mission, both self-assigned and pushed onto him by a worried father.

“Hold on just a bit longer,” he leans down to say against Byleth’s bowed head, but is surprised instead by the soft skim of a nose up his cheek. He only has a moment to marvel at the sudden firmness of Byleth’s grip at his waist before he meets half-lidded eyes, dark with the reflection of the storm clouds rolling in above them but bright, shining with so many emotions that it leaves undone, ribs spread open and heart ready for the picking under the incisiveness of the look directed his way.

Fingers soon come up to his face, calluses catching on the skin that still feels like its burning from his previous touch before sinking into his beard and keeping his head still, no longer a request for reassurance but a demand for attention:

_Thank you_ , Byleth mouths, the surprisingly expressive twist of his mouth grave but his eyes heartbreakingly sincere, the first deliberate glimpse of the one who wears the title of _Ashen Demon_ like a cloak and inspire such terrible loyalty that it would carve a bloody swath across countries.

A hero or a tyrant? In the end, it doesn’t matter, not when he could be looked at with such intensity, such faith—like he is _seen_ and _known_ , like his past doesn’t matter as long as the person he is _now_ still exists.

He should look away, should usher him down against the shelter of his bulk to keep the cold away from him. But he can’t.

Flying through the storm, the distant rumble of thunder echoing in his chest, it feels like the outside world doesn’t exist, like they’d always exist in this moment, perfectly preserved in time yet always in motion, the microcosm of his soul reflected back to him unflinchingly, without judgement.

The tableau is broken only when Byleth wraps his arms – no longer shaking, held still by determination and the last dregs of his will alone – around Nader’s shoulder and gently, delicately, like the simplest of movement would shatter time itself, presses his face against the Almyran’s neck. Trust, and gratefulness, and a soul-deep pain that couldn’t be shown in front of the ones who had known him the longest trickling out of him, drop and drop onto the Undefeated’s skin.

As if called, the rain follows soon after, letting them both pretend that it is nothing but water that stains Nader’s clothes, that the agony of coming done does not wrack his frame and digs its claws into his soul.

They stay like this for a long, long time.

***

Years later, when the past comes knocking and Byleth ends up embroiled in machinations nearly a millennium in the making, he will look at Claude’s puzzled stare and smile secretively, a hand resting at the side of his head, just above his right ear.

There, if you look closely, you’ll see, hidden amongst the complicated twists of the snowy braid that lay there, a single hairpin, black and glossy, reflective; something almost like the scale of a great stormy beast.

And in Almyra, where such things are more significant, they will look at the white in Nader’s hair and remember the tales of a great wyrm that came from the mountains and tore the world asunder, and wonder.

**Immaculate Wings Route: END**

_Byleth, Divine Beast & Nader, Envoy of the Gods_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and we're now done with this route~ more fics set in this one may come out in the future, but for now, it's time for the next one!


End file.
